Stephanie Laurens – An Unwilling Conquest (страница 7)

“I’ll get along and see Hamish then, shall I?”

Harry turned as Dawlish came up. Hamish, his head-stableman, should have arrived yesterday with his string of thoroughbred racers; the horses would be settling into their stables beyond the racetrack. Harry nodded. “Make sure Thistledown’s fetlock’s sufficiently healed—I don’t want her entered unless it is.”

Dawlish nodded sagely. “Aye. Shall I tell Hamish you’ll be along shortly to see it?”

“No.” Harry studied the fit of his gloves. “I’ll have to rely on your combined wisdom this time. I’ve pressing matters elsewhere.”

He felt Dawlish’s suspicious glance.

“More pressing than a prime mare with a strained fetlock?” Dawlish snorted. “I’d like to know what’s higher on y’r list than that.”

Harry made no effort to enlighten him. “I’ll probably look in about lunchtime.” His imaginings were very likely groundless. It could be no more than coincidence, and two likely females travelling without major escort, that had focused the attention of the men in frieze on the Babbacombe coach. “Just make sure Hamish gets the message in time.”

“Aye,” Dawlish grumbled. With a last keen glance, he headed off.

Harry turned as his curricle appeared, the head-ostler leading the greys with a reverence that bespoke a full appreciation of their qualities.

“Right prime ‘uns, they be,” he averred as Harry climbed to the box.

“Indeed.” Harry took up the reins. The greys were restive, sensing the chance of freedom. With a nod for the ostler, he backed the curricle preparatory to making a stylish exit from the yard.

“Harry!”

Harry paused, then, with a sigh, drew in his impatient steeds. “Good morning, Gerald. And since when do you arise at this ungodly hour?”

He had spied his younger brother amongst the crowds in the tap the night before but had made no effort to advertise his presence. He turned to watch as Gerald, blue-eyed and dark-haired as was his elder brother Jack, strode up, grinning broadly, to place a familiar hand on the curricle’s front board.

“Ever since I heard the story of you escorting two excessively likely looking females who, according to you, are connections of Em’s.”

“Not connections, dear brother—acquaintances.”

Faced with Harry’s languidly bored mask, Gerald lost a little of his assurance. “You mean they really are? Acquaintances of Em’s, I mean?”

“So I discovered.”

Gerald’s face fell. “Oh.” Then Dawlish’s absence registered. Gerald shot a keen glance at his brother. “You’re going to Em’s now. Mind if I hitch a ride? Should say hello to the old girl—and perhaps to that dark-haired delight you had up beside you yesterday.”

For an instant, Harry was shaken by the most absurd impulse—Gerald was his younger brother after all, of whom he was, beneath his dismissive exterior, distinctly fond. He concealed the unexpected emotion behind his ineffable charm—and sighed. “I fear, dear brother, that I must puncture your delusions—the lady’s too old for you.”

“Oh? How old is she?”

Harry raised his brows. “Older than you.”

“Well—perhaps I’ll try for the other one then—the blonde.”

Harry looked down on his brother’s eager countenance—and inwardly shook his head. “She, if anything, is probably too young. Just out of the schoolroom, I suspect.”

“No harm in that,” Gerald blithely countered. “They have to start sometime.”

Feeling distinctly put-upon, Harry heaved a disgusted sigh. “Gerald…”

“Dash it all, Harry—don’t be such a dog-in-the-manger. You’re not interested in the younger chit—let me take her off your hands.”

Harry blinked at his brother. It was undoubtedly true that any discussion of Mrs Babbacombe’s situation would proceed a great deal more openly in the absence of her stepdaughter. “Very well—if you insist.” Within Em’s purlieu, Gerald could be relied on to keep within acceptable bounds. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Almost gleefully, Gerald swung up to the curricle’s seat. The instant he was aboard, Harry clicked his reins. The greys shot forward; he had to exert all his skills to thread them through the traffic thronging the High Street. He let them stretch their legs once free of the town; Em’s leafy drive was reached in record time.

A stableboy came hurrying to take charge of the curricle. Together, Harry and Gerald mounted the steps to Em’s door. The oak door was set wide open, not an uncommon occurrence. The brothers wandered in. Harry tossed his gloves onto the ormolu table. “Looks like we’ll have to go hunt. I expect my business with Mrs Babbacombe will take no more than half an hour. If you can keep Miss Babbacombe occupied until then, I’ll be grateful.”

Gerald cocked an eyebrow. “Grateful enough to let me tool your greys back to town?”

Harry looked doubtful. “Possibly—but I wouldn’t count on it.”

Gerald grinned and looked about him. “So where do we start?”

“You take the gardens—I’ll take the house. I’ll call if I need help.” With a languid wave, Harry set off down one corridor. Whistling, Gerald turned and went out of the main door.

Harry drew a blank in the morning room and the parlour. Then he heard humming, punctuated by the click of shears, and remembered the small garden room at the end of the house. There he found Em, arranging flowers in a huge urn.

At his languid best, he strolled in. “Good morning, Aunt.”

Em turned her head—and stared in stunned surprise. “Devil take it—what are you doing here?”

Harry blinked. “Where else should I be?”

“In town. I was sure you’d be there.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Harry conceded with the obvious. “Why?”

“Because Lucinda—Mrs Babbacombe—went into town half an hour ago. Never been there before—wanted to get her bearings.”

A chill caressed Harry’s nape. “You let her go alone?”

Turning back to her blooms, Em waved her shears. “Heavens, no—her groom accompanied her.”

“Her groom?” Harry’s voice was soft, urbane, its tone enough to send chills down the most insensitive spine. “The young tow-headed lad who arrived with her?”

He watched as a tell-tale blush spread over his aunt’s high cheekbones.

Disconcerted, Em shrugged. “She’s an independent woman—it doesn’t do to argue overmuch.” She knew perfectly well she should not have let Lucinda go into Newmarket this week without more tangible escort, but there was a definite purpose to her ploy. Turning, she surveyed her nephew. “You could try, of course.”

For an instant, Harry couldn’t believe his ears—surely not Em? His eyes narrowed as he took in her bland expression; this was the last thing he needed—a traitor in his own camp. His lips thinned; with a terse nod, he countered, “Rest assured I will.”

Turning on his heel, he strode out of the room, down the corridor, out of the door and around to the stables. The stableboy was startled to see him; Harry was merely glad the horses were still harnessed.

He grabbed the reins and leapt up to the seat. His whip cracked and the horses took off. The drive back to town established a new record.

Only when he was forced to slow by the press of traffic in the High Street did Harry remember Gerald. He cursed, regretting the loss of another to aid in his search. Taking advantage of the crawling pace, he carefully studied the crowded pavements from behind his habitually unruffled mien. But no dark head could he see.

He did, however, discover a large number of his peers—friends, acquaintances—who, like himself, were too experienced to waste time at the track today. He entertained not the slightest doubt that each and every one would be only too willing to spend that time by the side of a certain delectable dark-haired widow—not one would consider it time wasted.

Reaching the end of the street, Harry swore. Disregarding all hazards, he turned the curricle, missing the gleaming panels of a new phaeton by less than an inch, leaving the slow-top in charge of the reins in the grip of an apoplectic fit.

Ignoring the fuss, Harry drove quickly back to the Barbican Arms and turned the greys into the loving hands of the head-ostler. The man confirmed that Em’s gig was in residence. Harry surreptitiously checked the private parlour and was relieved to find it empty; the Arms was the favourite watering-hole of his set. Striding back to the street, he paused to take stock. And to wonder what “getting her bearings” meant.

There was no lending library. He settled on the church, some way along the street. But no likely looking widow haunted its hallowed precincts, nor trod the paths between the graves. The town’s gardens were a joke—no one came to Newmarket to admire floral borders. Mrs Dobson’s Tea Rooms were doing a brisk trade but no darkly elegant widow graced any of the small tables.

Returning to the pavement, Harry paused, hands on hips, and stared across the street. Where the devil was she?

A glimmer of blue at the edge of his vision had him turning his head. Just in time to identify the dark-haired figure who sailed through the street door of the Green Goose, a tow-headed boy at her back.

Pausing just inside the inn’s door, Lucinda found herself engulfed in dimness. Musty dimness. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she discovered she was in a hall, with the entrance to the tap on her left, two doors which presumably led to private parlours on her right and a counter, an extension of the tap’s bar, directly ahead, a tarnished bell on its scratched surface.